"amd they caught me on it!"

Does anyone even care anymore?

Because crutches don't work on a broken heart. You can't cast it up and tell me not to use it for 6 weeks. It won't heal.
I watched the tiny brunette break the boy's nose, and the dark haired exotic break the ribs,
but the blonde, your blonde, went straight for the heart. The trainer on sight was not equipped with the right bandages or even the right vocabulary tests to teach her how to deal with the phenomena.

They gave me rest as a prescription, but all this time I'm staring at the ceiling with eyes glued to the idea that waking up from the dreams is harder than sleeping without them.  Thinking leads to aching.  I think we need a different surgeon, because guess what: IT STILL HURTS.

Crackers and soup. Netflix. More sleep. Moving on with your life. Kissing a thousand new girls. Melatonin. Ibuprofen. People think they're doctors but they don't know how to deal with a disease plagued civilization.

Even in my new life, you're my motivation; to do better, to hit harder, to win stronger, it's always on you. Because I'd like to show you what you're missing, or maybe make you miss what I'm showing. Maybe it's supposed to impress you or remind you you've lost something worth making spare key for. Maybe I'm just as bad as the PHD's and labcoats that claim to have 8 years worth of learning what to do.

The broken nose: We're waiting for the swelling to go down before they reset it.
The Ribs: He's on medication and he's counting down until he can start lifting.
My Heart: I'll let you know when we find someone who knows the length of a real recovery.